Fighter Pilot in the 1950’s

Although this record is written as a personal history, the main objective is to record the lifestyle and flying freedom of pilots which applied in the early 1950s.

by Graham Plumbe Flt Lt (ret)

Ichose a 4 year short term commission in preference to National Service - for the simple reason that it gave 2 years real flying on a squadron and not 2 years training and no more. The status distinction was manifested in my start date; I was asked to attend on 1 Jan 1952, but I declined to do so on New Year’s Day and chose to delay it by one week. That would not have been permitted under National Service.

I reported to the Reception Unit at Cardington followed by Transfer Units at Driffeld and Cranwell. Air Force life really started on 27 May 1952 at No. 5 Initial Training School, Cosford for 4 months of square bashing. We had been given Officer Cadet status with NCOs instructed to call us ‘Sir’. I shall always remember their derisive tone as to ‘Sirrrr’!

I think it was from Cosford that I was given a visit to Middle Wallop, whence the Army Air Corps flew helicopters, to see how they operated. We visited the training areas on Salisbury Plain and I was then asked where I wanted to go next. I opted for Corfe Castle, then Swanage where my parents were on holiday. We flew past their hotel at cliff top height, and I could see my father sitting in a deck chair in the garden. I waved but got no response. Later my father said he had wondered who the idiot was who was waving at him.

Graham Plumbe

Part 1 of 3

Low Flying Chipmunk

On 5 Aug 1952 a delightfully pompous certificate was issued saying:

Elizabeth II, by the Grace of God OF THE UNITED KINGDOM OF GREAT BRITAIN AND NORTHERN IRELAND AND OF HER OTHER REALMS AND TERRITORIES QUEEN, HEAD OF THE COMMONWEALTH, DEFENDER OF THE FAITH, To Our Trusty and well-beloved Philip Graham Plumbe Greeting: WE, reposing especial Trust and Confidence in your Loyalty, Courage, and good Conduct, do by these Presents Constitute and Appoint you to be an Officer in Our Royal Force from the Fourth day of June 1952. You are therefore carefully and diligently to discharge your Duty as such in the Rank of Acting Pilot Officer ………’ Given at Our Court, at Saint James’s the Fifth day of August 1952, in the First Year of Our Reign By Her Majesty’s Command [signed]

So, I was given officer status (the illustrious rank of Acting Pilot Officer!) immediately after going to Southern Rhodesia on 14 June 1952.

Heany, S Rhodesia

Next posting (14.6.52) was to 4FTS (Flying Training School) at Heany, just outside Bulawayo in what was then S Rhodesia. Venomous snakes were a hazard, and a Harvard fuselage had to be dismantled to remove a cobra. Of course, Phase 1 training was conducted in Chipmunks, in which I went solo after just 11 hours. Memories of this time include a student stalling on his first solo and bouncing over another plane in dispersal. Although he was unhurt, he lost his nerve and was removed from the course for Lack of Moral Fibre (LMF). I also remember flying solo with a serious hangover, with no desire to comply with specified exercises and choosing instead to see if I could establish a height record. I think it was in the region of 15,000 ft, and when the powers that be heard of it, we were all instructed to keep to no more than 10,000 ft as we had no oxygen. We were taught Instrument Flying, when by use of complementary colours through windscreen covers and goggles, we could see the instrument panel but not the world outside. That meant total disorientation, and I was the only one on the course that wasn’t airsick. This helped me win the course aerobatic trophy in Feb 1953.

We enjoyed a summer camp when we flew from a different area. Low flying at about 10 ft was all part of the fun. (see photo)

I then moved on to training on Harvards. They were notorious for doing ‘ground loops’ given the torque from the radial engine. Memories of Harvards are extensive, I once took off and found I had no airspeed indicated which was due to ice in the pitot head; it was necessary to send up a rescue pilot to lead me in at landing speed until I touched down. On another occasion a chum flew a navigation trip with his undercarriage down and pulled it up to land! Not a pretty sight. Another chum recorded his plane as unserviceable because his engine oil temperature was far too high. It was pointed out to him that his oil cooler shutters were blocked with vegetation from low flying. Yet another chum came back with an electricity cable threaded through his starboard wing. My own contribution to low flying was on a navigation trip when pilots were sent off round the course at set intervals. Finding a car on a country track was very inviting for him to be buzzed from behind. To avoid my number being taken, I pulled the plane sharply up. I was unaware that the next chap on the circuit was catching me up and saw the incident. It was only when we were back in the crew room that he was able to tell me that the buzzed car had disappeared in a cloud of dust.

On another occasion it was fun racing a Vampire on take-off given a runway for the Vampire and the Harvard on the grass. First part to Harvard; second part to Vampire - by a long way. Technology was developing fast, and Heany acquired a direction beacon telling pilots the course to steer to get back to base. The problem was that it gave the same answer even when the pilot had passed overhead, thus sending the plane away from home.

The crowning moment of my Harvard training was however when I bumped into a friend of mine in mid-air. The friend - Alan K - with hands off the controls was photographing me as I attempted to fly alongside him. I was too busy looking at the camera to watch where I was going. The result was that my propellor chewed deeply into his aircraft while his propellor chewed my tail off. To bail out of an aircraft of that sort it is normally necessary to undo all connections (e.g., headset), unfasten harness and climb over the wing to avoid the tail as you jump. Alan undid harness and headset (and with that any chance of speaking to base) and started to climb out but lost his nerve (so I believe) and put himself back in the pilot’s seat. He then flew home - his maximum flying speed and his stalling speed being very nearly the same. On landing, the ground crew informed him that his aircraft was incapable of flying.

As for me, I had no choice. My tail had disappeared totally, so the plane was pitching violently. Having undone my harness, I didn’t have to climb out; I was pitched out. That meant that I would have been sliced in two had my tailfin been in place - but no, it had gone. The rest was predictable; I pulled the ripcord which I found to my surprise came away completely, leading me to think ‘f**k, it’s broken’. It had however deployed the drogue chute which pulled out the main parachute after a short period

of freefall. There was a thump followed by a period of peace which I shall always remember. I watched my Harvard fly lower and lower until it crashed. I floated to the ground and landed in a field which was being ploughed - and the tractor driver didn’t even stop. I walked into a pub to telephone the airfield, report the crash, and explain where I was. An ambulance was sent immediately, which took me back to base.

My immediate priority was to find Alan and agree a version of events which (I have to admit) distorted the facts somewhat. Alan had thrown his camera overboard to avoid being caught out as to his role in the event. We agreed that he was flying quite normally and didn’t see me coming. For my part, I was doing a practice barrel roll and wasn’t watching where I was going, and so flew into him. That was the tale we told. Below are photographs of my aircraft after recovery (with me holding the joystick) and of posing with Alan:

Flying in Rhodesia was affected by heat, so we started early in the morning and stopped at lunchtime. In the circumstances however, a plane was kept out for me and an instructor stayed put. The purpose was to get me airborne and flying an aircraft (necessarily dual) as soon as possible to prevent me losing my nerve. That is standard practice after an accident, and I slept well that night. I slept less well when I learnt that a Post Office engineer had seen the accident and wished to report what he had seen. He did so, but in fact told a tale which also wasn’t correct. Matters came to a head when I was summoned to meet the Station Commander. Thinking I was about to be court martialled; I was astonished when he started to tell me of his own flying experiences, including taking part in the Hendon Flying Display in the 1930s when - in his words - he flew the Immelman turn before Immelman knew how to fly. He finished by saying ‘Well, Plumbe, I don’t think it’s something that will happen again, so I think we can leave it there’.

One happy result of the event was that I was invited to join the Caterpillar Club, which exists for those whose life has been saved by a silk parachute. It is awarded by Irvin-GQ Parachutes to those who have ‘hit the silk’, and I now wear the badge as a tie pin on my RAF tie.

It was just as well that Alan and I had agreed a version of events because on return to UK I happened to bump into Wing Cdr Bobby Oxspring in an officer’s mess bar who had been at Heany at the time. He asked me ‘Tell me Plumbe, what really did happen when you bumped into Alan K?’. To be faithful to Alan I replied that what had happened was as reported.